


On the Back of a Hurricane

by warriorpoet



Category: Fake News RPF
Genre: Community: fakenews_fanfic, F/M, M/M, Second City, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-02
Updated: 2011-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:46:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warriorpoet/pseuds/warriorpoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting dumped by both his partners and trying to stay friends with them while spending weeks on the road together has won Stephen the Life Sucks Sweepstakes, until Steve becomes his new roommate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Back of a Hurricane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Originally written for sloppycronkite for FNFF Secret Santa 2010, who asked for a Second City era tourfic inspired by the opening lines of "When You Were Young" by The Killers. She was also unfortunate enough to get me as her assigned writer for Yuletide that year, and I think she still hasn't forgiven me. (ilu Riya)

Lulled not into sleep but into hypnosis by the sound of the wheels on the road and the silence inside the van, the only thought in Stephen's head is that his life sucks right now.

Getting dumped sucks.

Getting dumped by both your partners at once really sucks.

And trying to stay friends with them while spending weeks on the road unable to escape them has won him the Life Sucks Sweepstakes.

He's surrounded by movement, going forward, not stopping, wheels turning and miles falling behind them in the space of seconds. But he's stuck. Walkman headphones on, jacket pulled over his face, completely shut down, saving any energy he has for when it counts. 

Not moving at all.

It's been like this for a while.

***

Another lunch stop, another gas station in some netherworld between towns that he didn't catch the name of. This one has a lone picnic table on a swath of grass between the pumps and the road that Paul and Amy have claimed as their happy little love fort while they split a pre-packaged mystery meat sandwich.

Stephen refuses to look at them. He stands by the van and toes at the ground. He counts the loose change in his pockets again, and watches an empty styrofoam cup blow across the concrete.

A pair of dirty, once-white sneakers enters his field of vision and he looks up to see Steve walking towards him, a greasy paper bag in his hand. 

"Hey," Stephen says. He attempts a bright smile, but from the way Steve's brow furrows he suspects it's bright like fluorescent light is bright – painful and artificial and depressing.

"How come you're out here? You don't want something to eat?"

Stephen shrugs. "Nah. Just need some fresh air."

The reek of gasoline is dizzying, and Stephen realizes how stupid what he just said is.

"Why are _you_ out here?" he counters.

"I don't know," Steve says. He frowns again. "You just… you looked like you could use an empty gesture of friendship."

Stephen smirks. "I guess that's better than a gesture of empty friendship."

Steve smiles and holds out the paper bag. "Want some popcorn?"

"No. Thanks."

Steve nods his head in the direction of the picnic table. "You want to talk about it?"

Without thinking, Stephen follows his lead and catches a glimpse of Paul's hunched shoulders and Amy's fingers in her hair before he turns back to see Steve shoveling a handful of popcorn into his mouth. "Was that another empty gesture of friendship, or are you genuinely asking?"

"Whatever you want," is Steve's muffled response.

Stephen's lips quirk into the slightest of smiles, and he hopes it's enough of a positive response to get Steve to drop it. "No. Thanks."

"Suit yourself."

Steve rests on the bumper of the van, holding the popcorn within Stephen's reach, and they wait in silence until it's time to move on.

***

The closer it gets to late afternoon, the closer they get to their first destination, the more Stephen fortifies himself behind a wall of dread.

It's the first time they've all been on the road since that last night at Paul and Amy's, their last night, his last night. It was difficult enough to stay away back in Chicago, but now he's going to be spending his nights in the same room as Paul with only the memory of their former sleeping arrangements to keep him company.

They mill around in the parking lot while keys are distributed. When Stephen sees Paul take his and break away from the group, he starts to follow.

"Please tell me we're on the first floor. Those stairs don't look like they meet any kind of building safety code."

It's the first thing Stephen has said to Paul all day, possibly the first thing Stephen has said to Paul in several days. When Paul suddenly stops and turns to look at him with a bad-news expression, Stephen wishes he'd kept his mouth shut.

"I, oh—didn't… we're not… Amy and I—"

Stephen interrupts Paul's awkward stammering with a quiet, "Oh."

"Yeah. I, um… I think you got put with Carell? You should go check with—"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll… sorry."

"It's okay, I—"

Paul is cut off by the sound of Amy clumping through the gravel garden beds, dragging her suitcase behind her. "We better not be on the fucking second floor," she growls. She softens when she sees Stephen. "Oh. Hi. Are you—"

"Just gonna go find out where I'm supposed to be." He smiles weakly. "I'll… see you later," he says, and walks away.

***

He finds Steve cursing at the stuck lock on their motel room door.

"Hey. I'm your new roommate."

The lock finally pops and Steve shoves on the door. "Cool beans," he says, and holds it open.

Stephen scoffs, and jabs his elbow into Steve's chest as he passes.

***

And so it goes.

Do a show. Go to the bar. Back to the motel. On the road. Slightly nicer hotel. Show. Bar. Road. Crappy motel. Show. 

On and on.

Stephen saves himself for his performance, leaves the best parts of himself out on stage and crashes hard from the adrenaline rush. He's good enough most nights that people in the audience will buy him drinks, and that's the only way he can afford to really get drunk. Which is fantastic, because it's impossible for him to watch Paul and Amy from _outside_ of Paul and Amy without being at least a little buzzed.

He's never noticed how _together_ they are before. He wonders if they were always that way, if he just never saw it because he felt like a part of it too, or if things have changed now that he's not a factor.

In order to _stop_ wondering about that, he tries to scrounge up another satisfied customer willing to buy him a drink. If that doesn't work, he just finds Steve and they go back to their room.

Steve is great. Steve is kind and funny and knows when to try to cheer him up and when to give up on trying to cheer him up. It doesn't take long for Stephen to decide that Steve is just about the only thing keeping him from getting out of the van the next time they stop and just walking off. Walking all the way home—not Chicago, but _home_ home, back to Charleston, give all this bullshit up and go be a high school drama teacher or direct community theatre or something. Anything that isn't _this_ , that isn't Paul and Amy and scamming free beer and paying for truck stop hotdogs with pocket change and getting back to his apartment to find he forgot to pay the electric bill.

Steve keeps him there, keeps him going. They hang out in their room and watch bad TV late at night just so they can make fun of it. No matter what's on—soft-core porn flicks or infomercials or local newscasters with terrible haircuts. They just sit there together in an unspoken competition for who can make the other laugh more.

It becomes Stephen's favorite part of the day. Even more than performing, most nights.

***

Another night, in another bar, coming down off another show, Stephen is broke and painfully sober. He rests his head on his hand to block his peripheral vision, to block out the two of them huddled at their little table in the corner, and he debates whether to just give up and go back to the hotel now.

An open bottle of Bud thunks down in front of him and he moves his hand to see where it came from.

"You can't keep doing this," Steve says.

"Doing what?"

" _This_. You're fucking miserable and it's starting to annoy the hell out of me."

"Oh. Oh, I'm _annoying_ you?"

" _Yes_."

"Fuck off," Stephen says, and takes the beer anyway.

Steve sighs. "Honestly, though… I think you need to talk to someone."

" _Someone_?"

"Talk to _me_."

Stephen shakes his head. As he takes another swig from the bottle, Steve pulls it from his hand.

Stephen glares at him.

"Hey, I wasn't giving you this for free. I expected something in return," Steve says, and drinks.

"What, you want me to let you play therapist for a night?"

"No," Steve says in a rock-solid deadpan. "I want you to blow me."

The skip of his pulse surprises Stephen, his sudden laugh surprises them both, and it's enough to drop the subject while they finish sharing their beer.

The next time Stephen looks over to the corner, the little table is empty.

***

Two nights later, in their room with the TV quietly playing low budget commercials for farm equipment, Stephen says, "We kind of had a thing. The three of us."

He glances over at Steve, waits for the sarcastic remark he's sure is coming, but Steve is looking back at him attentively.

"Paul and Amy and me," Stephen adds.

Steve reaches for the remote and mutes the television.

Stephen looks away again, up at the silent dance of light and color and shadow across the ceiling. "It started out that we were just fucking around, you know, it was fun. But… I—I started thinking it could work, three of us together, and I started wanting more than that and—it was Paul. He… he said he's too in love with Amy and too afraid of falling in love with me and doesn't know how to do both of those at the same time. And Amy, I think… she's happier to lose me than to lose both of us. So…" he trails off and laughs to himself, small and bitter. "We said we'd all stay friends though. So there's _that_."

"I'm sorry," Steve says quietly. "When did this happen?"

"A couple of weeks before we left Chicago."

"Wow. So, being stuck on the road with them right now must be all kinds of shitty for you."

Stephen slowly turns to look over at him. "Really? You go out of your way to drag this out of me and that's all you have to say?"

"I never said I'd give you any advice! I just said you needed to talk about it!"

"Well, thanks a lot, Steve. I feel so much _better_ now."

Steve snickers, and Stephen can't help but smile a little, breathing out a small huff of laughter through his nose. 

"I am sorry, though," Steve says quietly. 

Stephen doesn't say anything back, doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to thank Steve for all those so-called empty gestures of friendship that have kept him whole.

"But… I can't say I blame him," Steve continues. "Falling for you is so easy to do. It's scary."

Steve is speaking so lowly, and Stephen is still a step behind in responding. He's not sure if he heard him correctly, if at all.

He fumbles for the lamp beside him, a goddamned elusive switch that makes seconds seem like minutes and he can feel his heart crashing against his ribs and his fingers scraping over ceramic and dusty cloth and finally a raised plastic square that bites into the pad of his thumb. 

The light snaps on, and Steve squints at him from the other bed. "What'd you do that for?"

"What did you say?"

"Just forget it."

"No! What—"

"You heard me."

"Say it again!"

Steve huffs, and then it's his turn to talk to the ceiling. "Falling for you... is something that happens so quickly, and without warning, and so—it's such a long fall. And that can be scary. So I can understand why Paul could be _concerned_ about that—"

"What are you _saying_?" Stephen hoarsely whispers.

Steve glances over at him, scoffs, and turns back to the ceiling. "No, c'mon, that's not—I'm saying just forget—"

Stephen awkwardly vaults over the gap between the two beds and climbs on top of Steve, straddling his legs, forcing his attention. "Are you making this observation from personal _experience_?"

Steve stares up, his expression blank, until Stephen punches him in the shoulder. "No," he finally mutters.

"Why didn't you _say_ anything?"

"I'm not saying anything now!"

Not knowing what else to do, Stephen kisses him, directly, firmly, with purpose, like he's trying to draw the words out of Steve's mouth. 

Steve's eyes stay closed when Stephen pulls away and asks, "Are you saying anything _now_?"

He answers in one rushed breath. "I don't want to be your stupid rebound thing that you end up regretting so much that it's impossible for us to be friends anymore."

Stephen doesn't know what to say to that either.

Steve sighs and opens his eyes again. "Don't fuck me over just to get back at the world."

"I won't," Stephen murmurs, lost for anything else. 

He knows that's not enough. To try to convince Steve, he kisses him again. He keeps doing that until they have to stop to take their clothes off. Then his hands go lower and he makes Steve moan and at the very least, Stephen has found a way to begin to thank him.

***

The next morning, Stephen wakes to the sound of Steve singing in the shower and a lightness in his chest that makes him want to laugh uncontrollably. He hates to think it's some stupid, easy answer, that he suddenly feels his dark mood lifting from the simple act of getting laid. It's more than that. It's got to be.

There's time before they're set to leave, to move on to the next place, and together they walk to the restaurant at the front of the motel. Their food is slow to arrive, but neither of them bothers to check their watch as they sip strong black coffee.

"You look better," Steve eventually says.

Stephen wants to shoot back with some deflective jab, to tell Steve not to get too self-congratulatory. But all he can do is bite his lip to keep from smiling a ridiculously huge smile, and he catches Steve grin back at him before he drops his eyes to the sticky table top. He picks at a congealed glob of ketchup by the salt shaker.

"I feel less like the world is ending," he murmurs. Then he rolls his eyes at himself. "God, that was corny."

"Yeah, it was," Steve deadpans.

"Fuck you."

Steve laughs, and when their food arrives they divide Stephen's pancakes and Steve's scrambled eggs and hash browns between them.

***

As the dregs of the tourco players filter out of their rooms and wait by the van to get on the road, Paul looks at Stephen, and Stephen looks at Paul, and Stephen knows that Paul knows that something has changed.

"Hey," Stephen says, offering a tentative line of communication. "You sleep okay?"

"Uh, yeah," Paul croaks, and Stephen knows it's the first time he's used his voice today. Paul looks at him, _really_ looks at him, then glances at Steve, who is nonchalantly zipping and unzipping pockets in his backpack. Paul looks back at Stephen, and frowns. "Did _you_?"

"Yeah. I did," Stephen says.

They stand there for a beat, and a silent renegotiation of who they are to each other flies past in the space of a few seconds. 

Once again, it's Paul who breaks it off. "I better go get Amy—I don't think she's even out of bed yet."

Stephen chuckles. "You need a hand?" he asks, because a friend would offer that, and a friend would be able to follow through on that offer without ending up tumbling naked into that very same bed, the three of them staying there long enough to miss their ride and hitchhiking to the Greyhound station in order to make the next show.

"Nah, it's fine. I'll be right back. Don't let them go without us." 

Paul turns and jogs away in a rhythmic pounding of sneakers on concrete, because some friends have boundaries like that, and for now they have to be those kinds of friends.

Just for now. 

Steve is still fussing with zippers and pockets and Stephen smacks him on the shoulder as he passes.

"Are you looking for your ability to act natural in awkward social situations?"

"Yes!" Steve exclaims in mock-relief. "I had this feeling I'd forgotten something, but I couldn't figure out what it was. I think I left it on the nightstand in our room, can you go back and check?"

"Oh, I think you're doing just _fine_ without it."

Steve sighs and Stephen bites back that huge, ridiculous grin again. They claim the backseat of the van for themselves and wait to move on to somewhere new.

***

It all seems new. All of it. Even the places that Stephen knows he's been before, and the ones that just have that déjà vu that comes from constantly being on the road. The early mornings with the sunrise breaking through the overcast sky, the blur of the world passing in front of the windshield, the hotels and the motels with the peeling paint and the ugly landscape prints on the walls, the theatres and the bars and the rhythm of wheels on endless miles of highway. All the same, but somehow different.

There's the way that Steve looks at him now, a quiet blend of something like hunger and awe and Stephen can never quite figure it out, because Steve always smiles and ducks his head when he gets caught. There's the way they sit together in parking lots and share candy bars and soda and talk about writing a screenplay together that they haven't quite yet got an idea for. There's the way they still spend their late nights trying to make each other laugh, but now it's together under the thin motel sheets, in between kisses and fading into the breathless gasps of shared handjobs or the silence of mouths otherwise occupied.

And then there's the way he can be in the same room with Paul and Amy again and not feel that burden of heartsick self-pitying bullshit that makes him want to give up on everything he's worked for and take a huge step backward into the role of the dour, pretentious, miserable son of a bitch he used to play so well.

All of it new.

Now he finds himself pausing in moments otherwise insignificant—changing his shirt backstage before the show, staring out the rain-streaked van window at a passing blur of trees, standing in line to buy coffee at their lunch stop—pausing to let himself be caught by an intangible feeling. Wherever he is, he'll seek out Steve and Steve will smile, and then Stephen will finally be able to put words to it: _This is a good day_.

***

On their last night out, Stephen empties his pockets and buys a round for Paul and Amy.

"A truce," he says. "A peace offering. To tell you that I want us to stay friends."

"Didn't we already say that?" Amy asks.

"We did, but now I'm sure that I actually mean it," Stephen smirks. "Besides, we've barely been speaking to each other the last few weeks, and that's not really conductive to friendship."

"We thought you needed time," Paul says.

"Right! Exactly. I did, and now I've had it, and now I'm calling an end to any and all breakup-type awkwardness with us."

"I think that was all coming from you," Amy says flatly.

"Whatever. It's over now." 

"Okay," Paul says, and takes his beer.

Across the room, Stephen catches Steve's eye, sees him grin and give a thumbs up. Stephen tucks his bottom lip between his teeth and drops his gaze to trace the wood grain of the table with his fingers.

"So," Paul says, faux-casual. "You've seemed a little more cheerful the last couple of weeks."

Amy gets to the point. "What he means is: are you banging Carell or what?"

"What?" Stephen looks up in surprise.

"You have a habit of fucking anyone you get put in a hotel room with," Amy shoots back. "It's a safe assumption."

"Amy, cut it out," Paul says.

"No, it's fine. I mean, friends ask friends about who they're fucking, right?" Stephen shrugs. "Yeah, we are."

"Oh, _God_ ," Amy groans.

"That's good," Paul says, ignoring her. "I'm glad—you seem happy."

"Yeah," Stephen says. "I think I am."

They all fall silent and their eyes don't meet. The seconds stretch on until Amy noisily drags her bottle across the table and says, "Uh-huh. This is going really well."

Stephen laughs, Paul smiles, and Amy rolls her eyes.

They'll get there someday.

***

The moment the door of their room closes, Stephen propels Steve toward the bed. He impatiently tugs at the hem of his t-shirt, then gives up and moves on to slipping his hand under the waistband of his jeans, trying to unzip and unbutton in one motion.

"Jesus, what's got into you?" Steve yelps.

"You," Stephen says.

They both cringe at the same time. Steve bursts out laughing. 

"Oh… my _God_."

"Shut up! I was trying to be sincere."

"But that was so _terrible_."

"Fine, you can suck your own dick."

"I don't want a mouth that drops lines _that bad_ anywhere _near_ my dick."

Stephen breaks and makes for Steve's zipper again. "Well, now I have to do it to get back at you."

"Gotcha."

One corner of Stephen's mouth turns up as he focuses on his task. "I mean it though," he says, off-hand, casual. "You're the only thing that's held me together on this trip."

He gets Steve's jeans unzipped and starts tugging them down his hips, planting kisses on his stomach and palming the swell of his cock.

Stephen feels a tentative touch to his hair, then more pressure, fingers stroking his scalp. He looks up and sees Steve looking back at him with such overwhelming tenderness that he knows he wouldn't change a thing that's happened to get them to this moment.

He smiles to himself and looks away, focuses again on undressing Steve. His stomach flutters and he feels his skin flush as he tongues at Steve's cock. He passes his lips over the head, and fingers tightly clench in his hair.

This is a good day.

***

They drive through the day and through the night and pull into Chicago just after sunrise.

Paul and Amy's building is one of the first stops they make. Paul taps Stephen on the shoulder as he gets out; Amy waves goodbye. Stephen smiles to himself, and he might just be sentimental because he's half asleep, but it amazes him how much better he feels since the last time he was here. He's thankful to have made it back.

Steve's apartment is two stops later, and as the van pulls up to the curb he looks to Stephen with a hopeful smile and a questioning gleam in his eyes. 

Stephen follows him out and stretches his arms over his head to feel his back pop as weak morning sun peeks its way out of the clouds. He helps pick through luggage to find their bags, and after a moment they're left standing together on the sidewalk as the van pulls away.

"So," Steve says.

"So," Stephen says.

Steve grins and shakes his head. "Do you want to go grab some breakfast?"

Stephen glances up at the third floor, at what he knows are Steve's bedroom windows looking out onto the street. "Maybe we could go upstairs for a while? Get some sleep?"

"Sleep, or… _sleep_?" Steve asks with an exaggerated leer.

"Surprise me," Stephen winks back at him.

Steve drags his duffle bag up the stoop and fishes in his backpack for his keys. "I'm really tired. It might not be that surprising," he says.

Stephen laughs as he follows him, the anticipation of falling asleep mid-makeout and spending a day with nowhere else to be sending a tingle down his spine. 

Later, there'll be time for more. To stop and be in one place is enough for now.

They'll get there soon.


End file.
